


A New Tomorrow

by janetcarter



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Gen, Introspection, PTSD, Scars, Whipping, he's working on his book and it's a rough time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 12:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20309302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janetcarter/pseuds/janetcarter
Summary: If the people of Narn could accept Garibaldi's coffee stain as one fragment of the greater prophetic vision, they could handle the truth of their liberation as well.





	A New Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> For the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt "whipping" which I'm still kind of surprised I didn't choose to do something kinky for. Here, have some introspection instead.

It happened all too often; the scratch of pen against paper echoing a whip's sharp crack. When he opened his eyes, he would see how his flinch had caused the letters to tangle back into themselves in a black, inky mess.

After taking a long look at the smudged scribble on the page, he sighed in acceptance. It was as much part of him as the words he chose to breathe onto the page, was it not? To shrink away from the decisions of the universe was to reject life itself.

Though, he would be a fool to not acknowledge: the universe may have guided him to certain places and hardships, but his own actions in those moments carried him to the other side.

He was not what had happened to him. He was the choice: the choice to scream and free his people, the choice to forgive rather than fester, and the choice to wear his scars as proudly as one could without submitting to the moment once again.

Phantom sensations prickled across his back, prompting a deep breath to ground himself.

There had been a cruel irony to the situation. To Cartagia, it seemed as though G'Kar had succumbed to the fear of death; that he was powerless in the Centauri's superior grasp. Obviously, the thought of a single additional lash against flesh, bloodied and marred, was far too much to bear. This _savage_ would rather give in to weakness than remain loyal to his species' dearest values.

G'Kar clenched his teeth. In truth, it had taken every ounce of willpower that hadn't already stained the floor sanguine to voice his anguish. All he had wanted to do was slip away in his final breath. A silent ascension from cracked lips would have been a satisfying disappointment to the fiend who had ordered his torture.

But to live? To give the Centauri the show they so desperately craved? It had not been a display of powerlessness. No. It had been a choice to take power back.

It was something he could do once more by proudly admitting his betrayal of the values he once treasured; the values his people still do.

Shortly after Cartagia's assassination, he had seen children freely skipping about Narn's streets. Crimson sunlight warmed their spotted skin. Despite the surrounding ruins, their joyous laughter finally strolled along the wind. When the thirty-ninth lash had split his skin, he was convinced he would never see such things again.

The thought that Narn never would either was what kept death's embrace at bay.

Freedom mattered far more than any judgment their elders could inflict. Let them stone him and watch as pebbles drip off of his flesh like rainwater. For if he had not acted, his people would still be in chains. If he had not acted, he would not have lived to reveal the very memory on this very page. It mattered not if his followers supported his sacrifice once they knew the truth behind their liberation. As their teacher, he could only hope they would learn as he did; that they would realize he was no longer the Narn whose old writings they worshipped, and that it was for the best.

In some ways, the Kha'Ri had been right to assume him dead when they released his book to the public. The G'Kar his followers knew was gone, and so they must meet him anew; eye, scars, and philosophies in all.

He continued writing, steadying his shaky grasp under crimson candlelight. His past was not something he could omit or reject. Instead, he could sculpt his story for the eyes of others, through those of his own.

What had happened need not be a symbol of weakness. It was one of strength.


End file.
